“Because my pitaa is dead, there is nothing for me in India. I am not safe with my own family there. Manju has harmed me. He has arranged for his brother Daaruk to marry me in Jaipur. Daaruk has already hurt me.” She looks down at the tile floor again, deciding whether to say anything more. “Please do not send me to India, where there is no one but a man twenty-three years older than me who my brother-in-law is forcing me to marry. I will be a good French citizen. I have already found a job at the Academy of France. I already know how to speak some French.”
Now she needs to explain exactly what Manju did to her in the apartment and how often. We’ve practiced it many times. But why is she stopping? “Please, Your Honor,” she says. “Please believe me.” She hasn’t even used the full five minutes, but she’s done. Maybe it’s because Pradeep is there. Or maybe it’s because there are so many strangers in the courtroom. But I don’t think her testimony has made anyone cry or want to change their life to save her, except maybe me.
The judge says, “Thank you, Gita. Now the lawyers may want to ask you some questions.”
Macon stands and smiles warmly at her. Then he says in English, so she can understand him, “It must not have been easy to tell the story you just told. Thank you, Gita. You’ve known a lot of struggle in your life. You never meant to live in France, did you?” The translator spins his words back into French.
“No. I just came here to visit.”
“This man, Manju—he raped you in your apartment in Paris, yes?”
“Yes,” Gita whispers and looks ashamed.
“Did his brother Daaruk also rape you before you came to France, Gita?”
“Once,” she says with her eyes on the floor. “One time in the shop where he keeps the gems. It was very soon before we came to France to visit. He said it would make me remember him while I was here. He said I was going to be his wife.”
“I think you’re remarkable for what you’ve been through. Are you scared by the prospect of living in France in the foster care system?”
“I will be very good. I will do work and help cook.”
“I have no further questions, Your Honor. We have here a very talented, bright girl who’s been preyed on in India by a man who would marry her against her will if she returns and who’s been preyed on here in Paris by that man’s brother. The only reasonable thing to do is to grant her asylum by way of the persecution clause. We seek foster care for three years, until the girl is eighteen. Thank you, Your Honor.”
The OFPRA lawyer stands up from the table across the aisle from
Macon. He is short and stocky, with the jowly face of a bulldog. He says, “Thank you for your testimony, Gita. Tell us about the tourist visa. When did it run out?”
“I can’t remember exactly. I think back in October maybe.” She’s begun shifting her weight from leg to leg, and I can tell she’s getting tired. There must come a point where you just want to sit down and hear the decision.
“So you were living on an expired visa for eight months in France?”
“We had no way to get home. My pitaa died and we had no way to live in India any longer. We couldn’t leave Paris.”
“I see. Is Daaruk the only person waiting for you in India? Isn’t there a grandmother who would take you in?”
She looks surprised by this last question. “I don’t know if my grandmother is alive.”
“But you think she might be? Because she was alive when you left, and you’ve only been gone a little under a year. So there’s a good chance she’s at your old house, where you left her?”
“It’s possible,” Gita says. “She was very old and sick.”
“Anything is possible,” Macon calls out in French.
“Quiet from the defense,” the judge says, also in French. The practical parts of the hearing are so confusing. Why can’t Macon talk more now? Why can’t he interject? What are the rules of who goes when and who gets to say what?
“But, Your Honor,” Macon argues, “the prosecution is working off a hypothesis. The defendant will not be any safer from the man named Daaruk if she’s housed with her eighty-year-old grandmother.”
“If I need analysis of the prosecution’s argument, I’ll ask for it,” the judge says quickly. Then she looks at the opposing attorney. “Please continue.”
“We seek reunification with the defendant’s grandmother in India. OFPRA has a history and a preference for family reunification. The girl won’t be safe in Paris on her own. She’s only fifteen. I don’t think her case warrants foster care. I would like to approach the bench, Your Honor.”
“Request granted,” the judge says.
The attorney walks over to the judge, and they confer in whispers for several minutes. Then the lawyer goes back to his table and says, “We rest our case.”
Gita makes her way back to her chair. Macon leans over to her and smiles, but it’s a forced grin. The judge asks Macon to approach. Now he and the judge have their own muffled conversation. When Macon goes back to his seat, he looks furious. The judge says in French, “We have been informed by the prosecution that the defendant’s grandmother is alive in India. She’s been located at the defendant’s family house. Were you aware of this fact before you came into my courtroom today, Gita?”
The translator finishes and Gita’s eyes widen with surprise. She stands at the table and speaks so quietly it’s hard to hear her, but what I think she says is “No, ma’am.”
The judge nods. Then she leans back in her chair and talks in hushed tones with the U.N. rep and French government rep. It’s very quick. Next the judge leans forward. “It is deemed by the state of France that Gita Kapoor be voluntarily reunited with her grandmother in her home country of India, in the city of Jaipur. Transport will be determined under the auspices of OFPRA and the asylum center at Rue de Metz.”
Oh, God. Why didn’t Macon say more? Why didn’t he argue harder with the judge? He sits in his chair, making notes on one of Gita’s forms. Then he stands and walks toward the judge with the form in his hand. The OFPRA lawyer rises too, and he and Macon begin arguing in French. I think they’re arguing about Gita. Maybe there’s still a chance she might win. I hear the word “deportation.” It’s over. No hope. Macon seems to be trying to secure Gita a bed at Rue de Metz until she’s flown back.
The judge stands abruptly and walks out. Then everyone else stands. The representative from the U.N. leaves, and the stenographer and the translator and the government lawyer, until Gita’s left at the table with Macon. She turns to me and puts her hand to her mouth as if she can’t breathe. “Gita.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Look at
me.” But she won’t. I walk toward her. “Look at me.” I don’t let myself cry. “We will fix this.”
The same police officer snaps the handcuffs back on her thin wrists. She starts sobbing while he leads her out. I wait for Macon to explain, but he gathers his papers up and puts them in his saddlebag and jogs to catch up with Gita, who’s already out the door. I turn to find Pradeep, but he’s vanished. The hall at the Palace of Justice is even more crowded now with families and lawyers and crying babies. And it’s gotten hotter in here. Everyone’s waiting for their allotted slot to meet the judge and tell their story. Nothing inside our courtroom went the way I thought it would. There was so little time to make a good case. I walk until I reach a wooden door with a metal push bar that opens to the inner square lined with steep flights of cement stairs. People sit on the steps and hug and cry. I lower myself down and put my hands over my face and sob. Where’s Macon? No one on these steps seems to have good news. No one is laughing or celebrating the French summer. I’ve got to call Sara. I’ve got to talk to Sophie and Rajiv. Macon still doesn’t come. It’s starting to get dark, and the iron gate around the palace looks more forbidding. Finally, I wipe my face on my sleeve and walk down the steps to the street.
He’s already at the apartment when I walk in. “How did you beat me?” I ask. “I waited for you in the courtyard.”
“You waited? Oh, you shouldn’t have. I’m so damn sorry for the way things went in that courtroom. I didn’t tell you the lawyers leave through a back door.”
“A back door.” My hands are shaking. Gita’s been denied. She could be sent to India any day.
“That judge is a hard one,” he says. “It went very badly.”
I’m so disappointed that I feel short of breath. There’s no air in my lungs. My throat feels hot and scraped. In a way, my disappointment makes no sense. I knew Gita had a thin case, but I’d been able to trick myself into thinking that the system would pity her.
“Did the judge read the testimony? Did she read Gita’s whole story? We worked so hard on it.”
“The testimony is not why Gita didn’t get her ruling today. The people at OFPRA made a verification that Gita’s grandmother was alive. I didn’t know this when the hearing started. But that was all the judge needed to send her back to India. I told you to prepare. The hearing was over before it started.”
“I still don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense. Why is she any safer from Daaruk at her grandmother’s?”
“This is the problem with the fucking system. You cannot understand it because it is cold and capricious and you are of the warmhearted species.”
“Gita has to marry her rapist? Because that’s what’s going to happen in Jaipur.” My voice begins to rise. “They’re going to fly her back and she’s going to land in a random town they happen to have a seat on a plane to. Somehow she’ll make it back to her house, where her grandmother may or may not be. Daaruk will be there within a day or so. She’s better off dead.” I’m screaming now.
“Stop what you’re saying. She’s not going to die.”
“Don’t you get it? She’d rather die than live with that man! Why didn’t you fight harder for her? Why didn’t you explain it more to the judge?”
“
Merde, Merde
. Willie, I am trying to make you understand. You act like this is the only case that was tried all day in the Paris immigration courts. There are hundreds. I’ve had twelve already this week. This is how it works. The judge looks for some way to comply with the laws, and when they find a living relative in the home country, it’s finished. Gita didn’t have a good case, can’t you understand that? You are not a lawyer.”
“But I was her guardian.” I start crying again, only this time it’s not those quiet sobs I could swallow in the courtyard at the palace.
“That doesn’t mean you’re a legal expert. Christ, Willie. You have to trust me. Don’t you think I tried?”
“Why didn’t you talk more about the rape!”
“They never want to hear about rape in court if they can avoid it. They want to talk about illegal entry into the country. You don’t see
it. Do you know how high the numbers of girls are who have been assaulted and raped? It’s too much emotion in the court, so they avoid it. Don’t you think I wish it had ended differently?”
“But did you want it for Gita?” I raise my voice again.
“I always work as hard as I can for my clients.” His voice is very low, his face like a mask. Only his eyes move.
“You have no idea, really. You have no idea what it’s like to be a woman and be raped.” I start to cry again.
“Christ, Willie. Am I missing something here? Have you been raped?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying you don’t know about Gita’s fear. It’s sick that the court is sending her back. I’m ashamed to be a part of the process. There’s nothing fair about it. This is what you do for a living every day? Send people back to the places that almost destroyed them?”
“You need to go to sleep now. You’re saying things you don’t mean.”
“But I do mean them.” I sit on the floor by the door to the kitchen, and I let the tears come down.
“Then you’re cruel. I don’t want to be anywhere near you.” He turns and walks past me. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“Do that. Sleep there.” I stand up and walk past him and slam the bedroom door. Then I lie on the bed and fall asleep with my clothes on.
I wake up in the middle of the night full of regret for what I’ve said to Macon. He didn’t deserve it. I spend the rest of the night on an inventory of my weaknesses—why I led Gita to believe she might win asylum; how I didn’t allow myself to see Luke’s HIV so now we’re caught on our heels, only waiting for more drugs. Macon’s gone when I get up and walk into the kitchen. I don’t call Luke to tell him about the disaster at the palace. He doesn’t need any of my bad news. Let him sleep. Let him sleep as much as he can.
At eight I go down to the street and find a cab. I can’t decide how far the hand of OFPRA reaches into France now that Gita’s appeal has been denied. I don’t know, for example, if she’s technically allowed to leave the center with me today and go to the academy for her job. Maybe Truffaut will consider her a flight risk and refuse to let her. By the time my cab turns left on Rue de Metz and stops in front of the wall of graffiti, I’ve decided to try it. Maybe Gita and I will get at least one more trip across the city together. And I owe her an explanation.
There’s a man waiting at the door in a blue nylon windbreaker. Kirkit. I can’t believe how glad I am to see him. “Is that you, Kirkit? Do you remember me from the kitchen the other week? I’m one of Gita’s teachers.”
“How are you, Ms. Pears?” He smiles. I’m surprised he remembers my name.
“Well, I would be better if Gita had been granted asylum yesterday. I’m sure you’ve heard the news?”
“I waited here all day yesterday to find out, and I got to speak with her when she returned. It’s not fair, what the court has decided. Gita isn’t safe in India.”
“It’s hard news, Kirkit.”
“What you don’t know,” he looks at me, “is that I intended to take care of Gita once she was released. I have an aunt here in the city. She is like a mother to me. I have told her about Gita, and she has made room in her apartment for one more person. Indians need to stick together in France.”
“I knew you were friends. It’s a very special thing, your friendship. I didn’t know you had made plans.”
“Yes. We share the same dreams. Do you know what I’m saying?” The buzzer zings, and I smile at Kirkit and say nothing. But I nod. And when I do this, he smiles back at me and holds the door open. Gita is standing inside the hall in her green sari. She gives Kirkit a small fierce look as he walks past her.